


MUTUALLY ASSURED DIRECTION: the movie: the sequel: with a vengeance: this time it’s personal: tokyo drift (Deluxe Director’s Cut) (Gold Box Version) (May Contain Nuts Or Traces of Nuts)

by Cephalopod



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, terrible porn by accident, terrible porn on purpose, wait for the credits to end i hear theres a stinger
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-08 01:31:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4285530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cephalopod/pseuds/Cephalopod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s watching you intently when you look up from the phone, all careful and blank but you’ve seen enough faces you can professionally make or break to spot the nervous hope hiding in there. Fortunately for this guy’s face, you are going to make him. You are going to make him so fucking hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Feature Presentation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glowcloudy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glowcloudy/gifts).



**OPENING SHOT: PARTY**

People know people, so what’s weird is really the fact you’ve never met this guy before. He’s the perfect kind of innocently bizarre hipster bait that big money trying to look like small money loves. Fucking loves. Look at him. A popped plaid button-down collar, a bad-guy black cowboy hat indoors, and stupid shades at night. He’s drinking a can of light beer. He’s got shoulders you could serve dinner on to a family of four. Where the fuck has he been hiding?

Somebody’s talking to him already but he doesn’t look all that interested and fuck George Lucas anyway. Fortunately you have taken the precaution of establishing a solid and well-founded reputation as a seriously tacky piece of shit and George is an old-school guy who sensibly excuses himself when you romance up to Hat Dude and start mumbling about the mating habits of sharks. You saw a show on it a few days ago, so you’re actually getting kind of invested in all this shit about like claspers and keratinous gestation pods and how shark pups fucking eat each other in utero, god damn but that’s metal oh hey you kinda forgot you were supposed to be chatting this guy up in a professional capacity.

“So yeah,” you say, “cheers,” and you make a hollow donk with your glass of Pineapple Fuck-Me-Up against his can.

You drink. He doesn’t. “The fuck are you?” he asks.

You give him your card, and thank god he actually and obviously knows your name. His eyebrows go up over his pointy shades so you don’t have to spend five minutes explaining to him that you’re just some guy and also the hottest shit on the planet and also you have no idea why anyone would watch half the crap you do and sometimes you cry when you jerk off in the shower. You’re set.

“Bro,” he says. And then, like he’s been asked by every clown before you, “Yeah nah, it’s not short for anything. Just Bro. I...do puppets. Full-set.” There’s a weird lilt on the ‘do’ in that sentence that makes you squint a little. Shades, though, so your faintly emotive moment is safe.

“Puppets like what,” you ask. Something’s tickling your memory, something that was in some music videos last year? Muppety shit but with dicks? There might have been a thing with OK Go. You can’t fucking stand OK Go.

Dude pulls out his phone for show and tell and gestures you over. You stand shoulder to swole shoulder with him, both of you hunched over the glowing screen, and the gallery he starts fingering through is one of the most wonderful things you’ve seen all year. Puppets. Plush puppets in primary colors, Henson Creature Studio ripoffs to a one, but with mammoth protuberant asses (hey there, Sweet Bro intellectual property)  and not-quite dicks for noses and the most exquisitely ambiguous expressions on their weird fleece faces. You don’t bother to hide your wonder. This is good shit. Bro cues up a couple short videos, almost a demo reel. It’s his little fappets conducting some faux food commercials, one for breakfast cereal and one for hot dogs, and if you have ever met somebody who can finger the fine line between children’s food advertising and queasy horror, it is this guy.

He’s watching you intently when you look up from the phone, all careful and blank but you’ve seen enough faces you can professionally make or break to spot the nervous hope hiding in there. Fortunately for this guy’s face, you are going to make him. You are going to make him so fucking hard. And on that note: your mouth and your backbrain have a cozy relationship that doesn’t involve the rest of your conscious mind much. You’re used to it, so you’re not even surprised really at the next thing you end up saying.

“I’m going to make a porno,” you say. “Like the worst one ever. And you're going to be in it.”

“Sold,” says Bro. “We’re making this-”

 

* * *

 

**CUT TO: MENACING WOODLAND SET**

Two orange fappets with pink hair and bulbous pink eyes are standing in front of a car. The car is a cardboard box with wheels drawn on in sharpie and CAR written on the side, with serifs and everything. Someone has visibly given at least half a fuck about writing that word on that car, which is a box. There is a flat illustration of some trees as a background. The fappets’ mouths flap continuously. The arms of BOTH PUPPETEERS are visible.

BRO’S VOICE [FAPPET 1]: Aw shit. The car is busted.

DAVE’S VOICE [FAPPET 2]: This fucking sucks. It’s almost night time. We can’t stay out here all night with a busted car.

An intern turns the lights off, plunging the set into half-assed darkness save for the low-angle illumination provided by Bro’s phone. His hand is dimly visible below it at the bottom of the screen.The camera pans to an over-the-shoulder shot of FAPPET 1 from FAPPET 2’s perspective. Bro’s phone is visible. Its background image is a picture of Bro.

CATERING VOICE: Anybody got any food allergies?

BRO’S VOICE [FAPPET 1]: Good thing this car is powered by dicks.

DAVE’S VOICE [FAPPET 2]: It’s not a fuel thing, it’s the fact that the fucking car is busted. Think about that for half a god damned second, you wouldn’t look at a car that’s literally on fire and go hey let’s put more gas in it.

BRO’S VOICE [FAPPET 2]: Dicks.

 

* * *

 

**CUT TO: PARTY**

“Don’t even fucking say we’re making this hapen. Do not. Do. fucking. not.”

Ha ha, he’s totally using your catchphrase. He’s sucking up and no lie, you think that’s pretty great. It’s a little early in the game to show your ass on exactly how enchanted you are by this smarmy fuck, though, so you affect some diva pique and light into him. You’re also totally showing off--this is live Strider braindump here, which you’ve been informed repeatedly is one of your charm points. People like weird shit. But that’s kind of your life in a nutshell there, so whatever.

“The number of times I have been solemnly informed by smug pieces of shit, all of whom were better dressed than you, that a given thing was going to be made to _hapen_...god. And you know what, you all fucking pronounce it hay-pen even though it’s right there coming out of Hulk Fucking Hogan’s mouth as happen, two p’s no waiting. Hay-pen is a goddamned subtitle thing. If whoever invented the word happen knew what people were doing to it for the sole purpose of pressing their chapsticked lips to Strider ass, they’d agree that I can’t even remember where I started this sentence well enough to make this stunning conclusion match up. That’s how much hapening is not happening here. Capisce?”

“Cool,” says Bro. He turns his head just enough to make one of the lights behind you glint off his pointy shades; it’s obviously something he’s done enough to get good at it. You can respect that sort of attention paid to really, really stupid things.

“But,” he continues, “it’s fucking hapening.” Hay-penning. He folds his arms ponderously across his double-meatloaf chest like a bouncer who’s just decided that you’re not cool enough to gain entry to the club where people get to draw the line on the use of their own fucking catchphrases. Fuck that guy. Fuck him. Fuck his stupid hapening and his molecule-wide smile thing. He is a douche of the first order and you are totally suspended between utterly sincere loathing and similarly sincere delight in how consistent and profound this guy’s idiom is. He has asshole iki.

You jab a finger at his meatloaves, maintaining eye contact like the fucking pro you are. “I’m pissing on your face. Right now. Whatever you think is happening to your face is not whatever you think it is but me, pissing on it, instead of that thing.”

He nods, like of course that’s what’s going on, and after a pause calibrated so artfully to abut on the awkward that you can almost see the decimal points (2.789 beats), his tongue slips out from between his lips and makes a lewd, glistening circuit. Top, bottom, and top again.

Your dick, much like the rest of you, is both dismayed and fascinated. You sip your drink. “Can you do that while the camera’s rolling?” you ask him.

“Mine’s already rolling,” he says. You assume that’s a metaphor.

 

* * *

 

**CUT TO: MENACING WOODLAND SET**

The pink carbox is crushed to shit and the crumpled cardboard would be digging hell out of your right knee if you gave a damn, which you don’t. There’s a fappet under your chest. There’s another pressing down on your back between your shoulder blades. You’re wearing one sock. Bro is wearing the other. It’s kind of a joke, ha-ha, like that’s a thing dudes doing sex scenes that aren’t porn do, they put a sock on it. Your viewing public loves that sort of thing: the sort of thing that seems like secret insider knowledge but that anybody could find out in three seconds on the internet. Anyway your sock is on your foot, your dick is flying free in the air, and Bro’s thumb is sliding up between your cheeks on a thick squirt of black cherry lube.

“Uhn,” you say.

“Say that one more time,” says Bro, “and I’m putting my fuckin’ pants back on.”

“Hey, I literally hired you so we could fuck,” you say, shifting your weight back until the cardboard isn’t gouging into your tendon quite so much and the palm of Bro’s glove is cupping half your ass. “You gonna let a scripted sound effect mess that up?”

He pauses. His thumb rummages over and around the slick pucker of your asshole, calluses snagging on tender skin. The fuck is the point of gloves if you still have jacked-up hands? He sounds sort of confused when he finally gets around to answering.

“You ever figured maybe you could just _ask_ , man?”

“Yeah but,” you say, “you ever figured you could get hired-” He tries to cut you off with something, but you ride straight over it because he’s not the first guy who tried to interrupt you. Not even the first guy with your pants off. “-to fuck Dave Strider while the whole internet sticks its hands down its pants?”

His hand goes stiff for just a second and then thwup there’s a thick thumb up your ass. You jerk and make a hnnf of appreciation at the little twist of fucky hurt, and before you can say I’ll Be Dallas You Be Debbie he wedges that thumb sideways in a token attempt at prep and then _shit ow_ it’s all dick, all day. You’re not even going to run an internal monologue on how big he is, because as far as your ass can tell he’s got a dick that’s not going to bink out or fuck up your appendix and therefore you don’t have to care about the details. It’s a dick fucking your ass. You toss your hair out of your eyes and tilt your head back, lip bitten. The shoujo sparkles will have to be a post-processing thing.

The guy is a fucking pro, maybe even this kind of pro, because fuck you (literally) if he can’t go from sounding kind of perplexed to grinding dust into your knees in record time. You’re still thinking angles and filters though, and that won’t do.

“Harder,” you order, and the hand between your shoulders pushes down. Gaff tape chafes rough against your cheek. Your thighs and your balls both tighten, because damn if that’s not more like it. Not there yet, though. “No seriously, ha-”

His otherwise unremarkable dick (dicks are dicks, really) shoves your liver and pancreas out of the way and fucks you straight in the lungs. Your hand is clumsily fisted into a claw around your own cock and balls and you choke on floor dust that you gasp up at the sudden visceral punch of it, just long enough for him to pull back for another blow. When it lands you can feel the cement-block thud through your pelvis through every one of your vertebrae up to the base of your skull.

“Uhn,” he says, a little breathless. Because he’s an asshole. You ignore him because that’s your line god damn it, and twist the shit out of your junk as he drives a truck up your ass. Then backs it up to do it again. Again. There’s not as much lube up there as you might have liked under normal circumstances but--god, fuck--you’ve had less and--fucks sake faster shithead--and you can stillsitdowninyour--gfucking--directorschair--shit--fuck--just

You choke off a moan into the cement, and cough up: “Lemons, ghh-”

 

* * *

 

**CUT TO: CANYON**

A succulently rounded SPORTS CAR, dark midnight blue gleaming like the HOPE FUCKING DIAMOND through a million coats of high-grade WAX, peels on a long plume of churned-up dust across a nonspecific desert.

A DOG is driving. It’s an Irish Setter in golden sunglasses. If this dog were a person you’d have to pay it THIRTY THOUSAND DOLLARS to get out of bed and walk down the street.

The desert abruptly ends in a RIDICULOUS CLIFF and the DOG just drives straight off the CLIFF like it’s NO BIG DEAL. Close-up of that winsome panting face as the ground drops away below and the SLOWLY ACCELERATING DESCENT OF THIS DELICIOUS GODDAMN VEHICLE makes its soft perfect ears lift weightlessly up from its LUDICROUSLY BEAUTIFUL HEAD. It’s not buckled in.

The GROUND draws nearer.

Wide shot. The DOG slowly lifts up out of the drivers seat and begins to fall independently of the vehicle. RED-BLONDE ROCK rushes past at fatal velocity, CAR and DOG slowly and helplessly rotating in free-fall, buffeted by TERRIBLE MERCILESS WINDS.

FLASH PAN to the canyon floor, SUPER FAST ZOOM to a low-angle gladiator shot of a BAG OF RANCH PICANTO FRITOS.

TEXT OVERLAY: **TASTES LIKE WE NEEDED SOME PRODUCT PLACEMENT**

SOUND: THUMP

[BLACK SCREEN. DEAD AIR. STATIC 3 sec]

 

* * *

 

**CUT TO: BEDROOM SET**

You pull your softening dick out of his ass, strip off the empty condom, slump down into a moody huddle next to his knees. As an afterthought, you throw the condom off the little furnished plateau of the set. Somewhere in the dark, you hear the wet smack of lubricated whatever on polished concrete. An intern will get it. That’s what interns are for. The red light over the door that means film is rolling is still steady. The camera’s tiny red blip remains unfazed.

“Look, this fuck isn’t working.”

“It’s going fine, jesus,” says Bro. His ass is still in the air, and the stage lights catch the broad smear of lubricant across his cheeks. The camera will catch that. It’s just a pity it can’t catch the combined scent of ass, unwashed cowboy hat, and fake plastic bubblegum. That’s the lubricant. It smells exactly like the stale, sandy-textured crap that used to be in packages of baseball cards, and you’re just old enough to remember what that smelled like before baseball cards went all holographic variant limited-edition speculator bait bullshit and the gum would fuck up the ink so they stopped putting it in. And then everybody stopped caring about baseball cards in general. Forever. You can’t remember the last time you saw one. Why would anyone ever buy a baseball card? You don’t give half a fuck about baseball. You don’t miss the gum. You’re just having a weird moment about mortality and failure and the unrecoverable artifacts of a world that died while you weren’t looking, and you’re having it while you’re plowing the ass of your props guy. Or were. Because you’re definitely not doing that anymore.

You scrape the hair off your face and don’t look at the camera.

“It’s not fucking working,” you insist. “This is supposed to be the worst porn ever. God, what the fuck. This is just generic bad sex. People will be expecting, I don’t know-” you wave a hand vaguely, “-transcendently awful, and this is just lame. I can’t make shitty auteur magic happen every time. I just fucking can’t. I can’t do what they want. I can’t be that guy.”

He sighs. Frustrated, yeah, and why not, because you and your magical penis were so very up ons for a while there until you and your magical overthonk got in the way. Now you and your magical penis sort of bounce as he rolls to one side and comes up sitting next to you. He’s still got a boner, you can see that as you stare down into his lap. Because you’re magical. But you’re also a complete fuckup, and his boner is fading into a rubbery blueball mess and you wish this whole thing had gone different. You wish you’d never decided to do this. You wish Rose were here. You are desperately grateful that she is not.

“Dude. Shut up,” he says.

“You don’t get it,” you insist, “people are going to be watching this. They’re going to expect some cool motherfucker, and here I am thinking about Wade fucking Boggs, god-”

 

* * *

 

 **[STILL IMAGE** 0.04 sec **]**

* * *

 

“I’m serious,” he says, turning, “that you seriously need to shut. The fuck. Up.”

His hand burrows up under your shades and knocks them off, folding over your eyes in a sweaty-warm glove leather dark in which you can suddenly hear yourself breathing. The other hand curls around the back of your neck, thumb hooked over your shoulder. You can feel your carotid artery pulse against the pad of it. You freeze, like a deer on a highway at night.

“Inhale,” he tells you. You do that. Seven one-mississippis later--you count, there are seven, and you’re starting to get a little worried after four--seven long one-mississippis later: “Exhale.” You do that too and haul another breath in, in a rush.

Further orders about breathing fail to come down the line, so after a handful of seconds you gasp another fresh lungful anyway and stifle a cough. His hand is still over your eyes, your shades somewhere on the floor, your own hands draped bonelessly across your naked lap. Your dick is somewhere. You’ve kind of lost track of it.

“Nice,” he says, and your face heats up. “Just do you, hell. Nobody can tell the difference between you sucking on purpose and just sucking. I sure as dick can’t.”

“Look, fuck,” you start, “you-”

“Shhh,” he says. His thumb strokes your neck, pressing up against your adams apple and sliding down to the divot between your collarbones. You never had to wonder if that divot had its own name before.

You shh.

You breathe evenly, without his input or instruction. You can handle that. After a few moments of steady airflow, you remember that this guy is an asshole and that you resent this toppy shit intensely. He’s making out like he’s some magical fuckprince, a dude whisperer, some freaky gentler of wild Daves who need to get broke before they get rid, et cetera. It’s straight up ridiculous. Why is it this wizardly blood-cooling shit to have this guy’s smelly glove on your face? He works crappy fuckpuppets for money. Not even big money. You forgot what his hourly rate is but you do know it could barely afford to take you out for lunch.

“So how we doin’ in there?” he asks, thumb stirring around that nameless divot in your neck.

“Shitfuck bananas,” you sigh on a heavy exhale.

 

* * *

 

 **CUT TO: SHITFUCK BANANAS** [10 min 12 sec]

 

* * *

 

“Cool,” he says, and then you can see again. Your visual field is for a moment filled entirely by his ass as he rises to walk off the stage. Your hands and your dick are all limp in your lap. You flip him off as he walks, naked and barefoot, off the set. He doesn’t see you do it. The camera tracks him across the studio, past another camera crew, into the dimly-lit grimy section with taped-down cords where the catering table lives.

You let your hand drop before he turns around to look at you with his mouth full.

He gives you a thumbs-up, chewing. “Cut,” you call.

 

* * *

 

**CUT TO: STUDIO**

Wide shot of the studio. SAD DAVE is still brooding on the PORN BED, screen left. Center front, the BEAUTIFUL DOG FROM BEFORE happily munches a bowl of something. Its SUNGLASSES FALL OFF. An intern PUTS THEM BACK ON. In the middle distance, NAKED BRO chugs a water bottle.

NAKED BRO: “Was that fucking camera on the whole time?”

 

* * *

 

 **[STILL IMAGE** 36 sec **]**

* * *

 

**CUT TO: MENACING WOODLAND SET**

BRO’S VOICE [FAPPET 1]: Dicks.

DAVE’S VOICE [FAPPET 2]: Maybe if we fuck hard enough, that’ll fix the car.

FAPPET 2 discards its plush shell, revealing its HUMAN FLESH HAND INTERIOR. It splays indolently across the top of the BOX, which is a CAR. FAPPET 1 likewise strips, and is likewise ACTUALLY A HAND. It claps the other HAND, steadily.

BRO’S VOICE [FAPPET 1]: Harder.

DAVE’S VOICE [FAPPET 2]: Uhn. Uhn.

BRO’S VOICE [FAPPET 1]: Seriously. Harder.

FAPPET 2 strikes FAPPET 1 with GREAT VEHEMENCE. The box is crushed. CLAPPING continues in the wreckage.

DAVE’S VOICE [FAPPET 2]: Uhn.

CATERING VOICE: Lemons. Got it.

 

* * *

 

**CUT TO: BEDROOM SET**

Your face is on the floor and your ass is in the air and the hand on your back is digging its heel right into your spine below your shoulders, and you gargle out the last unintelligible bit of your line as your hips and stomach clench and you wring the gummy white mess of your orgasm straight onto the cardboard ruins of the Fappet Fuckmobile.

Your knees unlock and you collapse onto the mess and the floor beneath it because you can, you fucking own that floor, and Bro is left to rabbit weirdly away at your ass for another few seconds before he can work up the momentum to come. The weight of him thumping your prone form against the floor mashes your dick into the slimy-wet cardboard, and the weird pulpy sounds it makes are cinema verite gold. When he’s finished he tips into a heavy, lumpy weight on top of you and breathes into your neck for a few seconds.

“You _asshole_ ,” he groans, finally.

“We did it,” you mumble into the floor. “We fixed the fucking car.”

 

* * *

 

**CUT TO: DAYTIME TELEVISION INTERVIEW with WADE BOGGS**

WADE: Sure, I’d suck a thousand cocks for a billion dollars. Do the math, that’s like a million dollars per cock. You know how much time sucking a cock takes? Not that long, man. Not all that long. I’m just saying that even if it takes a little longer than usual, I’ve earned less for a hard day's work. No pun indended, y’know? Hard?

[LAUGH TRACK 2 sec]

WADE: Hell, let’s do this. [WADE STANDS UP] I’m ready right now. Anybody in the studio audience who wants to give me a million bucks, I’ll suck them off right-

[BLACK SCREEN. DEAD AIR. STATIC 3 sec]

 

* * *

 

**CUT TO:**

a splendid and majestic WOLF. The WOLF has a GUN.

 

**CUT TO:**

the GUN turns into a KNIFE. The KNIFE is holding a GUN

 

**CUT TO:**

the GUN is also holding a GUN

 

**CUT TO:**

the GUN turns into a KNIFE

 

**CUT TO:**

with a GUN

 

**CUT TO:**

that turns into DAVE’S DICK

 

**CUT TO:**

SFX: DETONATING BLUDWURST

 

**CUT TO:**

CATERING TABLE

 

**CUT TO:**

SFX: **DETONATING CATERING TABLE**

SFX: **DETONATING CAR FROM BEFORE**

SFX: **DETONATING BEDROOM SET**

SFX: **DETONATING STUDIO**

 

WIDE SHOT: the BEAUTIFUL DOG FROM BEFORE wanders through the blasted and grotesque WRECKAGE. It finds the charred remains of the DETONATED BLUDWURST. It EATS IT.

  


**[ROLL CREDITS]**

 


	2. Credits

 

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	3. Gold Box Special Order Freebie

Contains one (1) shitty knockoff of official shitty crew tshirts

touched by interns who may have touched Dave

 

 

or the other guy

 


	4. Book Club Questions

1\. Did you love it?

  
2\. Are you on the nominating committee of any major awards?

  
3\. We see Dave's dick a lot, but almost never see Bro's. What factors do you think influenced this editing decision?

  
4\. An internship is a customarily unpaid position that provides the intern hands-on experience, professional references, and college credit. In recent years, internship has come under fire as a way for companies to exploit young workers without pay and without a reasonable hope of advancement. What advice would you give to the studio intern picking up used condoms?

  
5\. That was Rose's car.

 


	5. no for srs

reddit said there was some creepy behind the scenes shit after the credits keep watching


End file.
